Old World Shadows
by keslei
Summary: Twenty-five years ago, Sam followed a strange boy into the woods. But before Sam could find out what the boy wanted, Dean and his dad got back from a hunt and Sam had to leave. He never told anyone about the boy, and eventually the memory faded. Now, Sam has found reports from that same town of children going missing, so he and Dean are headed back to find answers once and for all.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Written for the 2016 SPN Reverse Bang. My artist was patchworksam - her wonderful art can be found at patchworksam . livejournal 585 . html

* * *

SANFORD, MAINE  
1990

There were eleven dead bugs, five indeterminate blobs, and one water stain on the ceiling. Sam had counted them six times, before moving on to counting ceiling tiles (a grand total of forty-seven). Then he'd added twenty-nine holes by chucking his pencils at the ceiling, and finally three pencils, when they ended up stuck just out of his reach. Now, he lay sprawled on the unmade bed staring vacantly at the ceiling and wondering how much longer it would be until Dean and his dad came back from wherever it was they'd gone.

No one ever tells me anything, he griped to himself. It's always, Sammy, do your homework, or, Sammy, don't leave this room, or, Sammy, wait here while we vanish for half the night and come back bloody and refuse to say anything about where we were or what we were doing… Well, I've done my homework, and I'm waiting for them to come back, but if I have to stay another minute in this awful motel room, I'm gonna go crazy.

Sam sat up abruptly and shoved his feet into the sneakers he'd kicked off when he lay down. He didn't care what his dad had said; the forbidden outdoors was calling him, and anything would be better than dying of boredom in the ugliest motel room north of the Mason-Dixon line. Grabbing his jacket and a flashlight, he cracked open the door and slipped out into the night.

The gravel parking lot was dimly lit by the light from the motel sign - Black Bear Motel, Vacancy, Ask about weekly/monthly rates. Sam couldn't imagine staying here for a week, much less a month. Sure, his family lived out of motels, but even a seven-year-old could tell that this was pretty much the dumpiest motel ever.

He shuffled his feet as he wandered down the parking lot, scuffing his sneakers through the gravel and leaving ridges in his wake. The biggest flaw in his decision to leave the room was starting to dawn on him - there wasn't really anything to do out here either. A vending machine got his hopes up for a minute, but the cracked glass and the out-of-order sign dashed any plans of sneaking a soda or candy bar. After poking the buttons a few times, and giving the machine a few kicks for good measure, Sam made his way around to the front of the motel.

Ducking low, he crept past the manager's office without being spotted, then crouched near the wall as he peered across the road at a playground. Yes, it was deserted - it was eleven o'clock at night, after all - but the swings looked perfectly serviceable, and the single streetlight gave just enough light to see. Sam looked both directions before crossing the road; he could hear Dean's voice in his head lecturing him about safety and "always look both ways" and "don't ever go off on your own," at which point he deliberately thought about something else.

Once across the road, he grabbed a swing, walked himself backwards and jumped on. The swing chains made awful groaning noises as he pumped his legs, and he could feel the rust rubbing off on his hands, but the feeling of the wind in his face and the way gravity seemed to turn off for a second at the end of every arc brought a grin to his face. Eventually, when the swing wouldn't go any higher, he launched himself off into the air. There was a soft thump as he landed, followed by another thump as the flashlight fell out of his pocket and rolled away.

"Crap." Sam peered at the ground around him, which was dark enough that finding the flashlight was not going to be easy. His dad would kill him if he lost the flashlight, after he finished killing him for leaving the room in the first place. He started shuffling around in circles, hoping to find it that way.

Two minutes later, he'd found a couple of flashlight-sized sticks and one rock, and acquired a bruised toe thanks to the rock. "Crap," he repeated. Then again for good measure, "Crap." A pause. "I am so dead."

As Sam looked up and over towards the motel, he caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning around, he saw a boy about his own age standing at the edge of the lighted area. "Hey there," Sam said, "have you seen my flashlight?"

The boy just stared at him, and said nothing.

"My flashlight," Sam repeated. "It fell out of my pocket somewhere around here."

The boy still said nothing, but after a moment, he pointed to a spot about two feet to Sam's left.

A quick exploration of the area revealed the missing flashlight, and Sam looked up, impressed. "Good eyes; thanks!"

The boy's expression didn't change, nor did he say anything, but he beckoned to Sam, then took a step away, turned, and beckoned again.

"You got something else to show me?" Sam was curious, lonely, and bored, and this kid had just helped him out of a sticky situation, so he took a couple steps towards the boy, who turned and disappeared into the gloom at the edge of the streetlight's range. Clicking on his flashlight, Sam caught a glimpse of the boy, who beckoned again and moved away into the woods. With a shake of his head at how weird the other kid was being, Sam followed.

Ten minutes later, Sam was no closer to catching up to the boy, who seemed to always stay just at the edge of his flashlight's beam. Sam couldn't understand how the other kid moved so quickly through the woods - it seemed like there were roots and rocks everywhere, just waiting to trip him up, but the boy never faltered. Sam was also fairly certain he was lost, and with every step that took him further from the motel, the woods seemed to get progressively creepier and darker. Finally, he lost sight of the boy altogether.

Shining his flashlight around, Sam tried to figure out where the boy had gone, or, barring that, how to get back to the road. Then his flashlight started flickering on and off, before cutting out completely, and he muttered a swear word under his breath, something he'd heard his dad say at the end of a particularly bad day. He didn't know exactly what it meant, but it seemed appropriate for a situation like this.

He groped his way through the dark in the direction that he hoped was the road, but he'd only gone a few steps when his flashlight blinked back on, illuminating the edge of a deep ravine. Sam scrambled backward, then cautiously shined his light over the edge. The ravine had to be at least fifteen feet deep, with steep rock walls and no apparent way down, but as Sam panned his light down the floor of the ravine he was startled to find the boy standing at the bottom. "How'd you get down there? Are you stuck?"

The boy, as always, said nothing, but just gestured for Sam to follow.

"I can't get down there, not from here. Is there another way down?"

Still silent, the boy stared and beckoned.

Sam was getting frustrated now. "Look, just tell me how you got down there. Or tell me how to get back to the road."

The boy pointed to the right.

"Is the road that way? Or do I need to go that way to get down to where you are?" Sam was ready to be done with this kid, but a part of him wasn't willing to give up without answers, not after following the boy for this long.

Just as Sam was about to strike out to his right, he heard a distant voice from the opposite direction, calling his name.

"Sam? Sammy? You out there? Please be out there…"

"Dean?" Sam hollered back. "Where are you? I'm kinda lost." When he turned back toward the ravine, the boy was still staring at him. "Listen, I'm not sure what you want me to see, but I've gotta go now. Sorry."

The boy flickered twice, then vanished. Now it was Sam's turn to stare.

"This way, Sammy - follow my voice. And hurry, Dad'll be back from the bar any minute now."

With one last puzzled glance at the ravine, Sam turned and trudged back through the woods.


	2. Chapter 2

MEN OF LETTERS BUNKER  
PRESENT DAY

With a muffled groan, Sam pushed his chair back from the table and leaned back, linking his hands behind his head. He was getting too old to be spending hours hunched over a laptop running searches, or so his stiff muscles were telling him. And useless searches at that; so far there was no new word on Lucifer's whereabouts.

As he bent back over the computer and started scrolling through headlines once again, something caught his eye: "Four Children Missing, No Suspects." Sure, it wasn't Lucifer-related, but maybe it was a case, one they could actually solve and help someone. With a few clicks, he was scrolling through the article.

The case seemed straightforward enough at first glance – maybe it was just a human being taking these kids, as terrible as that would be. But something kept nagging at him, an intuition that told him to keep looking, that there was more to this than met the eye. As he skimmed through the article again, trying to figure out exactly what his subconscious had caught on, he stopped suddenly. Sanford, Maine – that name sounded vaguely familiar, like someplace he'd been before, maybe as a kid? Of course he'd been all over the place as a kid…

A quick Google search turned up a map of the area and a list of motels, one of which triggered a memory of a pencil-pocked ceiling and a broken vending machine. He had been there before, a long time ago. And if the Winchesters had hunted up there before, maybe whatever it was had come back. It was worth checking, at least. Shoving his chair back, he headed toward the garage to find Dean.

Dean was fiddling with something under the Impala and didn't appear to have heard Sam come in, so Sam nudged him with his foot. "Hey, Dean, do you remember working a case with Dad in Maine? It would have been quite a while ago, back when you guys were still leaving me at the motel."

Scooting out from under the car, Dean sat up and seemed to be thinking. "I think we worked a couple cases up that way. You got anything more than a state for me to go on?"

"The town of Sanford, maybe? Or Springvale or Shapleigh? Plus we stayed in the Black Bear Motel, if that helps."

Dean chuckled. "That does, actually. Yeah, that was a werewolf, I think, or some sort of shapeshifter at least. Shredded a couple of hikers pretty bad before we put it down. The rangers and cops thought it was a rogue bear, but then again everything up there seemed to be "Black Bear this" and "Black Bear that" – I guess Mainers really love their bears."

That wasn't the answer Sam was hoping for – werewolves and shapeshifters weren't known for stealing kids. "You sure that was it?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. That was the time you took off into the woods with some kid while we were gone and about gave me a heart attack." Dean shook his head. "Good thing Dad never found out about that one. He would have killed both of us."

"Wait a minute. Some kid?" Dean's words had sparked a vague recollection of an old playground and a boy who never talked.

"Or so you said. I never saw him, but you seemed pretty freaked out after he got you lost. Plus you had nightmares about it for weeks – I'm surprised you don't remember."

Sam was remembering now – a strange silent boy who led him on a chase through the woods before… vanishing? Or was that just part of the nightmares? Still, a creepy boy leading other kids into the forest could explain the more recent disappearances. It was worth looking into.

"I do, sort of. Listen, Dean, I've got to double check something, but I think I found us a case."

"I'm guessing we're heading to Maine, then?"

Sam nodded.

"Sure you couldn't have found one closer?"

Sam shot Dean a glare, and then stalked off. He needed to get a hold of those police reports.

From behind him, Dean hollered, "You better be damn sure – she isn't getting any younger!"

Rolling his eyes, Sam kept walking. He knew if he looked back, he'd see Dean giving the car a reassuring pat.

Ten minutes later, Sam was "damn sure." The Sanford police system had been surprisingly easy to hack, and two of the disappearance reports had noted the same thing: each of those kids had made a new friend on the days they vanished – a boy wearing what the parents noted as odd clothing. The police thought he might have been working with the kidnapper to lure the children away, but the more he remembered from his own childhood, the more Sam was convinced that the boy himself, whatever he might be, was behind the disappearances.

"Yeah, we're definitely going to Maine," he muttered to himself.

* * *

Twenty-plus hours later, Sam was also wishing he'd found a case closer to home. He'd forgotten how much he hated New England, with its oppressive trees leaning in on every side, their barren branches still somehow managing to block out the sky. Even the houses seemed cold and unwelcoming, with their truncated eaves and their blank windows, while everywhere rock walls crisscrossed the landscape like ley lines of isolation, dividing neighbor from neighbor. And the New Englanders themselves… Sam had never met so many distant and unapproachable people in his life. They fit right in with their houses and their walls, and trying to talk to them was like pulling teeth.

Sam and Dean had grabbed a room in the very same motel from when they were kids, and Sam swore the wallpaper was the same, only with a lot more years of accumulated grime. Being there had done one useful thing, though – Sam's vague memories of the silent (and, he was now sure, ghostly) boy had become more clear as he revisited the old playground. The swings had been replaced at some point in the last twenty-five years, but had regained a patina of rust and grime since then. Sam hadn't trusted them with his weight, but as he'd idly swung one back and forth, the scent of the rust and the groan of the chains had brought back images from that night.

The flickering flashlight, the boy's sudden appearance and refusal to speak, his old-fashioned clothes, his deftness in moving through the woods, the way he avoided the light… It all pointed to something inhuman. And though Sam hadn't gone looking for the ravine where the boy had eventually led him, he was certain that his memories of the boy vanishing were real, and not just a product of an overactive imagination.

"It all points to a ghost," he said, dropping into one of the dilapidated chairs in their motel room.

Dean nodded hesitantly, but was quick to add, "A ghost, yes, but that was more than twenty years ago. There could be any number of explanations for these kids going missing – we can't just assume it was your ghost."

"But the parents saw…"

Dean shook his head, cutting Sam off. "I know what they saw, but what about the other two kids? We need to talk to all the families before we go jumping to any conclusions."

Sam scowled, but he knew Dean was right. However… "There might be a problem with that. Our usual FBI agent cover isn't going to work up here, at least not now. There's two real FBI agents working this case, according to the police reports."

"Yeah," Dean broke in, "I heard the maids talking about them. Apparently the government puts up its agents in crappy motels, because they're staying here too, although according to the maids they're only using one of the rooms they've paid for…"

The look on Dean's face made it clear he was enjoying the implications of this bit of motel gossip, but Sam went on quickly before Dean could get too distracted by whatever it was he was imagining the FBI agents doing in their one room. "Anyway, we'll need a different cover for getting access to the families."

Dean grinned. "Already thought one up."

Sam groaned. "Not priests again…"

* * *

They decided on a divide-and-conquer method for interviewing the families of the four missing children, so an hour later Sam found himself standing alone on the front steps of a rather typical Colonial-style house. Running a finger underneath his clerical collar, which always felt like it was choking him, he cleared his throat and pushed the doorbell.

The door was answered by a middle-aged woman who looked like she'd been baking recently, judging by the remnants of flour on her sleeves and midriff. "Hello, may I help you?"

"Mrs. Gordon? I'm Father Henry, from St. George's." Sam scuffed one foot along the stoop. "Can I be of any help to you in this time of trial? Perhaps provide a listening ear?"

She looked him up and down, and Sam did his best to look like a concerned priest, a look that he'd sadly had all too much practice with.

"I'd like that." Stepping back, she let him into the house. "Did Father Aaron send you?"

Releasing a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, Sam followed her into the front room, and perched gingerly on the chair she offered. "Yes, Father Aaron thought you could use the company. I've just recently arrived at St. George's, but he wanted me to step right up and get to work."

"Please thank him from me – I don't know what to do with myself these days." She appeared to be on the verge of crying, and sank down onto the chair next to Sam with a shaky sigh. "It's just been so hard, losing Jamie like that and not knowing whether he's alive or…" Her voice broke completely, and she dropped her face into her hands.

Sam reached out a hand and gently patted her on the shoulder, wishing he could offer her real comfort instead of digging for information. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Gordon. Would it help to talk about the day it happened?"

Sniffling, she raised her head and met his eyes. "He was just out in the backyard, you know, playing in his stick fort. And I was so happy because he had a friend playing with him – Jamie's never been good at making friends, but he and this boy seemed to be having a grand time." Dashing a tear from her cheek, she went on, "I only looked away for maybe five minutes, long enough to switch the laundry, but when I looked back, they were both gone…"

Her voice trailed off as she shook her head helplessly, and Sam could see she was blaming herself for that momentary lapse in vigilance. He understood that feeling – the belief that your presence could have changed things, could have stopped something horrible from happening to the person you loved…

"It wasn't your fault, you know. And I'm sure the police will find him soon," he offered tentatively.

"Like they found his cousin William? Or little Anna? Or the other boy, Jackson?"

With that, she began to cry in earnest, and Sam realized there was nothing more to be learned here. Whatever this mother had seen or not seen, she needed a shoulder to cry on, not an interrogation. And right now, that was him.

Still, he thought as he attempted to console her, he'd confirmed the existence of a strange boy at a third crime scene. And if Jamie and William had been cousins, that could be a potential link between the victims. He hated to admit it, but posing as a priest really did work.

* * *

Two hours and too many crying parents later, Sam made it back to the motel, collapsing onto the bed. He stared vacantly at the ceiling while he did his best to make sense of what he'd learned. Both of the families he'd talked to had mentioned a new friend coming into their child's life within a few days of their disappearance, so that connection was solid, at least on his end. And along with Jamie and William being cousins, he'd discovered that Jackson's mother was distantly related to Jamie's father, so the family link was looking strong as well. Really, it all depended on what Dean had found out.

Sam was on the verge of dozing off when Dean banged open the door, slammed it behind him, and slumped into the nearest chair. "Well, I've had enough tears and snot to last me a month. Thanks so much for picking this case, Sammy."

Propping himself up on his elbows, Sam shot Dean a glare. "You're the one who suggested priests. You should know by now that people love to cry on priests' shoulders."

Dean heaved a sigh. "Still, it worked. Two kids, two weird boys for friends. Plus, William and Jamie were cousins, and Anna's family apparently goes all the way back to some of the early settlers here."

That was interesting news, and Sam sat up fully. "Do you know if she's related to the others as well? Because Jackson is."

"You're the one with the great and awesome computer skills; you figure it out. I need a drink after all those hysterical parents."

Grumbling to himself, Sam pulled out his laptop and started digging into Anna Weldon's ancestry, while Dean grabbed a beer and a nap.

After searching through enough census data and marriage announcements and birth certificates that his eyes were burning, Sam finally found what he was looking for, and something even more intriguing as well. "Dean. I think this case is bigger than we thought."

Dean didn't move or open his eyes.

"Dean. Dean!" Sam looked around, then picked up his pen and chucked it at Dean's head. "Dude, wake up – I found something big."

"Huh?" Dean blinked a few times, then focused in on Sam. "Did you just throw something at me?"

"Nope. Listen – I was right about Anna; she is related to the others. In fact, all these kids share an ancestor: Klaus Weber, who came to America from Germany in 1789. His old family farm was just up the road from here, actually."

Dean nodded slowly, "Okay, so that's our connection between the victims."

"Hang on a minute; there's more." Sam had just spent the better part of two hours putting together his theory, and he hadn't even got to the best part yet. "These kids aren't the only Weber descendants who've gone missing. This has been happening every thirty years or so since the early 1800s – once per generation. They've gone missing from all over New England, though, and sometimes it's only been one child lost, so no one's ever put the pieces together before."

"So you're saying…" Dean hesitated, but Sam jumped in with the inevitable conclusion.

"There's something seriously disturbing going on with Klaus Weber's descendants, and these kids are caught in the middle of it."

Sam waited a moment for Dean to process this new information, then went on, "Normally, I'd be inclined to think it was some sort of nasty curse on the family, but that doesn't really explain the boy that everyone's seen…"

Jumping in, Dean added, "And curses are usually more about people dying nasty deaths anyway, not just disappearing." A hint of a smile crossed his face. "Maybe it's a liver-eating mutant with a taste for younger meat."

"What?" Sam was fairly certain there was no such thing, and Dean's answering grin pretty much confirmed that.

"Nothing; forget it." Dean leaned back. "So if it's not a curse, then…"

"A ghost." It made the most sense, and Sam felt confident in his theory. "I think it's a ghost, punishing these children for something their ancestors did. And I know ghosts are usually attached to places or objects, rather than people, but there have been several documented cases of familial hauntings. I think that's what we're looking at here."

Dean nodded in agreement. "That would explain the weird boy who keeps showing up. Okay, any idea whose ghost it is?"

Sadly, no amount of internet searching had provided that answer. "No, but apparently the Sanford Historical Society has old newspapers and obituaries that are kept at their local museum, on microfiche. We can head over there in the morning for some good old-fashioned research fun."

With a groan, Dean buried his face in a pillow. "We need to work on your definition of fun."


	3. Chapter 3

The Sanford Historical Society building looked very much like every other local museum Sam had seen, complete with an elderly receptionist and a plethora of relatively uninteresting local mementos. While Dean attempted to sweet talk the receptionist into letting them into the back room where the records were kept, Sam strolled around the main room. Suddenly, he stopped dead. "Dean. Come look at this."

Excusing himself, Dean wandered over. "What is it?"

Sam pointed at an old sepia picture, labeled _Sanford School, 1820_. "That kid right there," he jabbed his finger at a boy in the front row, "he's the boy I saw."

"Are you sure?"

"It's him; I'm positive." Sam glanced down at the caption for the photo. "His name is… Nat Keller. And he was in third grade in 1850."

"He's our ghost." Dean turned back toward the front desk. "Give me a minute, and I'll get Gladys to pull up any records that might have info on him."

Sam chuckled. "Gladys? You're on a first name basis already? Don't you think she's a little old for you?"

"Shut up. A little flirting gets you right into restricted records."

"And into old-lady panties…"

From behind his back, where the receptionist couldn't see it, Dean flipped Sam off.

However much fun it was to poke fun at Dean, Sam had to admit that Dean's flirting got results. Less than ten minutes later, they were sitting in the microfiche room with a large stack of information from the 1820s, while Gladys continued to comb the shelves for anything else that might be pertinent.

An hour later, Sam had a splitting headache from using the microfiche reader, and he was no closer to finding out what had happened to Nat Keller. Plus, he now knew more than he ever wanted to about the history of logging in Maine and the construction of the first Episcopal church in Sanford. With a heavy sigh, he started in on news reports from 1821.

"Still think this is fun, Sammy?"

Dean sounded about as miserable as Sam felt, but Sam ignored him and kept scrolling. Finally, as his vision started to blur, he caught a glimpse of the name Keller. The text was faded and hard to make out in some sections, but from what he could read, it looked like Nat Keller had died in February of 1821, less than five months after the school picture had been taken. More importantly, Nat had been missing for four days before he was found dead. "Dean – I've got something."

"Thank God; my neck is killing me." Dean rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "What'd you find?"

"Nat Keller went missing in 1851, before turning up dead. Let's see… The father, Otto, who found the body, said that Nat had been lost in the woods near the family farm and had frozen to death." Sam hesitated for a moment as he struggled to make out the final sentence. "It looks like Nat Keller was buried in the family cemetery, which I guess would have been pretty common back then. And get this – Nat was buried alongside his great-grandfather, Klaus Weber."

"So he was another missing Weber kid. Was he on your list?"

Sam shook his head. "No, but if his family found his body, he was probably never reported as missing. And I wasn't looking for child deaths, just missing children."

"Okay, so Nat Keller goes missing, turns up dead, and then comes back as a ghost. Why, though? What reason did he have for sticking around?" Dean leaned back in his chair and groaned. "This means more looking at microfiche, doesn't it?"

"Maybe not." Sam shuffled through the pile of discarded microfiche films. "I remember seeing a mention of an Otto Keller before, but I didn't know he was Nat's father." Pulling out a film labeled _Journal of Sheriff Evan Weld_ , he stuck it in the reader and scanned to the relevant section, before pushing it towards Dean. "Here, take a look at this."

Dean bent over the reader, and Sam watched his lips moving as he deciphered the old text. After a bit, he straightened up, looking disturbed. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"That Nat Keller's death wasn't an accident?"

"Yeah."

Neither of them wanted to expand on that, but it had to be said.

"The sheriff's records show his father got locked up a couple times for drunken brawling; maybe Daddy came home drunk one night and hit his kid a little too hard." Dean visibly cringed as he said it.

Sam ignored the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he finished the thought. "And then he makes the rest of the family swear to keep quiet and takes the boy out into the woods and hides him where he won't be found." He shivered involuntarily at the horrible picture. "He gets the neighbors to help him look, but he knows they won't find Nat. And then he supposedly finds the body a few days later, and buries it in the family cemetery, privately, so no one ever knows. That's cold."

"It explains why it's always kids that vanish, though." Dean shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Nat Keller is making his family pay, both for his death and for their silence."

That didn't feel quite right to Sam, though. "Or maybe he's just trying to let someone know the truth?"

"What do you mean?"

Shrugging, Sam said, "I'm not quite sure, but he didn't feel like a vengeful spirit to me – more like he was trying to show me something."

"Either way, his ghost is killing kids, Sam." Dean gave a tired sigh. "You know what we have to do."

Sam nodded. "We have to salt and burn his bones."

* * *

The trip out to the Keller family farm was spent in an uneasy silence. It was easy to get used to death – hell, their job generally only started after someone had died – but this was different. Sam wasn't sure whether it was how young all the victims were, or the terrible theory that seemed to explain everything, but he wanted this case to be over.

Digging up a grave was mind-numbing work, and Sam threw himself into it, concentrating on the flying dirt and his aching muscles rather than on the thought of a father killing his son. At one point Dean tried to lighten the mood with a joke – "Haunted small towns in Maine? Creepy kids? Anyone else getting a Stephen King vibe?" – but Sam ignored him and they went back to digging in silence.

Finally, their shovels hit rotten wood. The small coffin was a simple box, half-disintegrated with age, and they unearthed it carefully. Neither of them wanted to be the one to open it, but after staring each other down, Dean eventually gave in. The nails protested as he pried the top open, and then the coffin was open.

Neither of them spoke. Sam couldn't have even if he'd wanted to – the bones they'd uncovered were so small, and he felt an overwhelming sense of sorrow that drowned everything else out. After a moment, Dean bent down for a closer look, gently brushing dirt away from the skeleton. His hand paused for a moment on an arm, and again as he touched the side of the skull. When he finally looked up, his face was somber.

"There's a fracture on the skull, here." His voice was ever so slightly unsteady, and Sam could tell he was struggling. "And his arm's broken, too. It looks like he fell into something, hard."

Sam swallowed slowly, then managed to force words out past the lump in his throat. "It fits. It's terrible, but it fits."

Ducking his head, Dean kicked at the dirt. "Sometimes I hate being right."

Sam reached for the salt. "Let's just do this and go home."

* * *

The ride back to the motel was almost as bad as the drive to the farm had been. Once in their room, Dean collapsed onto the bed with a beer, while Sam went to scrub off the dirt and try to forget about what they'd found. When he emerged from the bathroom, he found Dean watching the news, his beer forgotten.

"Emily is the fifth child to go missing this month, in a series of events that has even the FBI baffled," the lady on the screen was saying, as a banner ran across the bottom of the screen with a hotline number and a picture of a young girl floated in the top left corner.

Dean looked up, and quickly filled Sam in. "Another little girl disappeared this evening. After we burned Nat's bones."

"What?" Just when Sam was sure this day couldn't get any worse, it did.

"We must have missed something. That's the only explanation."

Sam shook his head. "Maybe Nat's baby teeth are saved somewhere. But even if they are, we'll never find them, Dean." This case was already tearing him apart, and not being able to resolve it… Enough kids had died already; he didn't want to be responsible for more.

"We're not giving up. We need to talk to Emily's parents, show them Nat's picture, see if they saw him with their daughter." Dean was already reaching for some clean clothes.

Dean was right; Sam knew that. But it didn't make talking to grieving parents any easier, and it didn't make Sam feel any better.

* * *

The Judsons' house was swarming with people from the local sheriff's department, the state police, and the FBI, along with neighbors and friends. Sam was sure that someone was going to recognize them as fake priests and throw them out, but somehow they made it to Emily's parents without incident. Dean started in with the standard apologies for their loss and offers of assistance in this difficult time, while Sam queued up a picture of Nat Keller.

When Mr. Judson mentioned seeing a strange boy playing with Emily that very morning, Sam extended his phone with the photo. "Was this the boy you saw?"

Mr. Judson looked confused. "No, definitely not. He was older than that, maybe ten years old. And he had very blond hair, not dark. And we already told the police all that – aren't you priests supposed to stay out of their way?"

After that, Sam and Dean excused themselves as quickly as possible, only stopping once they were around the corner from the house.

"If it wasn't Nat…" Dean began, but Sam broke in.

"Then burning those bones did nothing to protect any other kids. We're missing something important here, Dean. We need to get back into the records, and this time I think we need to refocus on Klaus Weber. He's still our best connection between the victims."

Dean nodded in agreement. "It's pretty late, though – I doubt the historical society will still be open."

Sam grinned. "Since when has that ever stopped us?"


	4. Chapter 4

By midnight, they had their answers.

"Okay, so let's review: Klaus Weber immigrates here in 1789 from a small town near Cologne, Germany," Sam began. "A small town in an area that's known for its beliefs in all the old legends, including some particularly memorable ones about shapeshifting spirits."

Grabbing a map of the area around Sanford, Dean pointed to the Keller family farm. "And he settles here, and builds the abandoned farmhouse we saw this afternoon. He has kids, and they have kids, and so on, and after he dies in 1814, some of those kids start disappearing."

"That's the key, though – no one disappeared until after he died, but he died in his sleep, so he's definitely not a vengeful ghost. In fact," Sam paused for effect, "he was the one who kept the family safe."

"From this." With a flourish, Dean displayed a very odd looking wooden carving. Or rather, half of a carving – the bottom section was broken off.

"From the spirit that carving summoned," Sam corrected. "A kobold. Known for serving their masters well, until such a time as their masters neglect them, at which point kobolds are notorious for turning on their masters. Also known for their ability to shapeshift and become invisible, which explains the boy everyone saw. And according to legend, they can hold grudges for centuries."

"So when the old man died and his kids tossed the carving, the kobold got pissed, and he's been pissed ever since," Dean finished.

"Less than eloquently put, but yes." It had taken a lot of work to put the pieces together, but this time Sam felt certain that they'd hit on the correct answer. Finding the kobold carving in the museum's collection of memorabilia had been their first clue, and once they knew what they were looking for, everything had fallen into place. There was just one problem. "Unfortunately, kobolds are very difficult to get rid of once they've been summoned."

Dean didn't seem too concerned. "You found that exorcism that's supposed to work – we'll just use that. Although we have to find the kobold first."

Dean seemed to have conveniently forgotten the fact that the legends said the exorcisms only worked occasionally, but Sam didn't feel like arguing. "About that – do you think it's been taking its victims to the same place each time, at least the ones from this town?"

"I'd buy that. But how does that help?"

"Because I think I know where that place is." Pulling the Sanford town map towards him, Sam pointed to an area about midway between the Black Bear Motel and the Keller/Weber farm. "I think when I saw Nat, he was trying to show me where he died all those years ago. There's a ravine in the middle of these woods, and his ghost wanted me to see it. If the kobold took him like it took the others, then that's where we'll find them."

Nodding, Dean grabbed his jacket. "Then let's go – Emily's only been missing for six hours. She might still be alive."

* * *

The woods beyond the old playground were denser than Sam remembered. As he wound his way through the maze of trees, the undergrowth of thorns and brambles caught at his clothing, like clawed hands reaching out to snag him. The night was moonless, with streaks of clouds across the sky which blocked out what little light the stars might otherwise have provided.

The beam of his flashlight played across the uneven ground, but even with that bit of illumination, Sam kept catching his feet on roots and rocks that appeared seemingly out of nowhere. In the distance, he could see Dean's flashlight roaming back and forth through the woods, and the occasional curse word that floated through the trees told him that Dean was having similar difficulties in navigating the treacherous terrain.

It had seemed like a straightforward plan: start from the motel, split up and search the woods until one of them found the ravine, exorcise the kobold, and save the girl. Now, out in the middle of what seemed like an unending forest, Sam was starting to wonder if they had overestimated their chances of success.

Clambering over yet another crumbling rock wall, he straightened and noticed Dean's flashlight was now strobing red – their agreed-upon signal for sighting anything that might be the kobold's hiding place. Cautiously, he picked his way through the forest in Dean's direction. As he got closer, he could see off to his left the edge of what was either a ravine or a steep cliff; the darkness swallowed up the beam from his flashlight before it could illuminate a far bank.

When he reached Dean, they both dimmed their lights and stepped carefully toward the edge. Peering down, Sam felt a chill run down his spine, and even though he couldn't pull up a memory of this particular spot, he knew in his gut that they were in the right place. "It's here," he whispered. "I can feel it."

Dean nodded, then reached into his jacket and pulled out a crowbar. "Let's hope kobolds hate iron as much as ghosts and faeries do… You got the exorcism ready to go?"

Sam patted the breast pocket of his coat. "Ready when you are. We have to get down there first, though." The drop-off directly in front of them wasn't an option; the rock wall was practically smooth, and Sam didn't relish the idea of confronting the kobold with a broken ankle. A fragment of a memory flitted through his mind, and he nudged Dean. "Go right. I have a feeling there's a way down over there."

Without questioning him, Dean slipped off to the right, playing his light along the edge. After ten yards or so, it became apparent that the ravine was both narrowing and getting shallower – both the far edge and the bottom were now clearly visible. Finding a spot where tree roots provided a good grip, Dean swung over the edge and dropped down into the ravine, and Sam carefully followed.

The floor of the ravine was littered with years of accumulated dead leaves and rotted tree limbs, and they picked their way along it slowly, making as little noise as possible. At any moment, Sam expected the kobold to detect their presence and come after them. He could feel the tension building in his spine, and from the way Dean kept shifting his grip on the crowbar, he was feeling the same thing.

Raising a fist, Dean came to a halt. "Do you hear something?"

Sam listened carefully, and heard the unmistakable sounds of a child crying. "It's got to be Emily." He took a quick step forward, but Dean's hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"No. You know the plan – I grab the girl and you get rid of the kobold."

Quashing his urge to rush to the little girl himself, Sam readied himself, flattening out the paper with the exorcism and running through it once more in his head.

Creeping forward, they came to a large boulder halfway blocking the ravine. The sounds were coming from the far side of it, and Sam gave Dean a quick nod to let him know he was ready.

Giving an answering nod, Dean rounded the boulder, with Sam on his heels.

The first thing they saw was Emily, curled in a ball against the wall of the ravine, hugging her knees to her chest. Her clothes were dirty and torn, her hair matted with sticks and leaves, and her face was tear-streaked. Seeing them, she shrank back in fear.

Dean rushed to her side, while Sam hung back, watching for the kobold. Murmuring reassurances, Dean knelt by the little girl. "Are you okay? Can you walk?"

She nodded hesitantly, and with Dean's help, got to her feet.

Grabbing her hand, Dean turned to leave. Suddenly, out of nowhere, an unseen force flung him into the wall.

With a scream of rage, the kobold manifested. It was a hideous creature, the size of a child, but with gnarled limbs and a grotesquely distorted face. Its fingers were clawed, and its eyes were black and cold. Shrieking, it advanced on Dean. "Mine! It's mine!" It swiped at Dean again, and he only just managed to get the crowbar up in time to protect his face.

"Persequar te malignus, et vocavi te per Deum vivum, per spiritum Dei…" Sam quickly started on the exorcism, all the while sending up a silent prayer that it would actually work. "…et egredimini de loco isto, et non est reversa."

With a piercing shriek, the kobold rounded on Sam. It attacked with inhuman speed, flinging Sam into the boulder. The impact drove the wind out of him, and he struggled to get enough air to continue.

Behind the kobold, Dean scrambled to his feet and grabbed Emily's hand, dragging her down the ravine away from the creature. For a moment, Sam thought they might escape, but the creature seemed to be able to sense when someone else touched its prey. Forgetting about Sam, it turned once again on Dean.

Sam was able to yell a warning, and a swing of the crowbar knocked the kobold aside. With an enraged snarl, it crouched and sprang again, only to be met once more by the cold iron of the crowbar.

"Praecipio tibi in nomine Domini, et percussit in patibulo crucis triumphavit…" Reading the unfamiliar Latin words from a crumpled sheet of paper by flashlight was not ideal, but Sam's pronunciation was apparently good enough, because the kobold was once again looking at him. "…et medetur percutit et dominabitur tibi. Idcirco praecipio tibi…"

This time, its attack was swift and silent. With a thrust of its arm, the kobold threw Sam into the wall of the ravine. His head connected painfully with the rock face, and he heard his flashlight shatter as it smashed into the rock as well.

From across the ravine, Sam heard Dean yell, "Hey, ugly, over here! I got your girl."

Whirling, the kobold advanced on Dean, shrieking out its possessive cry once more, "Mine! It's mine!"

"Heads up, Sammy!" With a quick flick of his wrist, Dean tossed his flashlight in Sam's direction. The kobold took advantage of this momentary distraction to backhand Dean into the far wall of the ravine.

Ignoring the pain in his head, Sam snatched the flashlight out of the air and peered at the script of the exorcism. It took him a second to find his place. "Idcirco praecipio tibi ut nunquam iterum terrent habitantium…" He knew he only had a few moments before the kobold would turn on him once more, so he rushed through the ending. "…in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, qui tecum vivit et regnat in saecula saeculorum."

As Sam said the final "Amen," the kobold let out an even higher pitched screech and vanished.

Sam sagged against the ravine wall, suddenly feeling all the pain and terror he had been ignoring.

Across from him, Dean scrambled to his feet, dusting off leaves and dirt. "You alright, Sam?"

Sam started to nod, then stopped when that sent a stab of pain through his skull. "I'm good. Is Emily okay?"

"I dunno; you've got the flashlight."

Stepping forward, Sam shone the light down the ravine. Emily hadn't gone far; she was peeking out from around a rock. Both brothers went to her immediately.

"Are you okay?" Sam crouched down to look the girl in the eyes. As far as he could see, she didn't have anything worse than a few bruises.

She nodded, sniffling. Reaching up, she wiped a dirty sleeve across the tears and snot on her face.

"The monster's gone now," Sam said. "It's going to be okay." Looking up, he caught Dean's gaze. Dean jerked his head toward the kobold's lair, and Sam gave a quick nod. Turning his attention back to Emily, Sam continued, "Do you think you can be very brave for just a little bit longer and stay here by yourself for a minute? We'll be right over there."

Squaring up her little shoulders, Emily nodded once again, and Sam gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder before straightening up and stepping away.

With a glance at Dean, Sam steeled himself for what they were likely to find.

A quick search of the ravine revealed a shallow cave about fifty feet further down. As they got closer, the stench coming from it became nearly unbearable, and Sam gagged, unable to take another step.

Taking the flashlight, Dean went ahead. "I've got this. There's no need for both of us to see this." After only a few seconds, he returned, his face pale in the ghostly light from the flashlight. "Three fresh bodies, and older bones as well. You were right about the kobold bringing his victims here, at least some of them."

Sam swallowed down the lump in his throat. He'd expected this, but that didn't make it any easier. "At least we weren't too late for Emily."

Dean nodded grimly. "That's a win in my book. Now let's get out of here and get her home."

* * *

Back at the Black Bear Motel, Sam stood staring into the mirror. He'd washed off the grime from the ravine floor, and cleaned up the gash on his head, but something was still nagging at him. Even the joy on the Judsons' faces when they saw their little girl again hadn't been enough to quell this gut feeling that things weren't quite resolved.

As he ran through the details of the case in his head, he kept coming back to the fact that exorcisms weren't generally successful against kobolds. But this kobold had definitely vanished, so why was he so concerned?

Dean banged on the bathroom door. "What's taking you so long?"

"Sorry." Sam splashed some water on his face, then opened the door. "All yours."

Sprawling into a chair, he grabbed his laptop and started reviewing his research, looking for anything that might point to the cause of his unease. It wasn't until he went back to the old stories that he figured it out.

Dean emerged from the bathroom just then, toweling his hair dry.

"We need to burn it down." Sam jumped in without any preamble. "Klaus Weber's house. We need to burn it and the carving, otherwise the kobold will come back."

With his hair sticking out every direction and a baffled look on his face, Dean managed a very coherent "Huh?"

Sam pressed on. "It's been bothering me ever since we got back – the exorcism was too easy."

"Too easy? I seem to remember both of us taking quite a beating." Dean tossed his towel onto the bed. "What are you talking about?"

Running his hands through his hair, Sam kept at it. "In the old stories, it's next to impossible to get rid of a kobold for good. Exorcisms aren't enough; they just temporarily dispel the kobold's physical manifestation. Pretty much the only guaranteed way to deal with them permanently is by burning their links to the physical world. And since they're house spirits, that means burning the house they've claimed as their own, plus the carving that called them in the first place."

Dean nodded thoughtfully. "It makes sense, I guess. Arson is a pretty big deal, though, even for us."

"The house is abandoned," Sam said quickly. "And if we don't burn it down, we're responsible for every other kid that this kobold takes, for generations and generations."

"You certainly know how to make your case." Reaching for his shirt, Dean started to get dressed. "We'll need some gasoline and lighter fluid if we're going to do this. And a good getaway plan."

Sam closed his laptop. "I'm on it."

* * *

It was almost dawn by the time they made it back out to the old farm. The bare branches of the trees in the distance stood out in stark silhouette against the cold sky, and the predawn silence gave an added air of solemnity to what they were about to do.

The old farmhouse was nearly falling apart already, and with the combination of gasoline, lighter fluid, and wood rot, Sam knew it would go up in a great blazing conflagration at the slightest spark.

"Do you want to do the honors?" Dean extended a lighter.

Taking it, Sam stepped up to the front stoop. The lighter caught on the first try, and he held it up to the old wooden carving of the kobold. It took a moment for the wood to catch fire, but then it was burning in his hand, the flames flickering around the grotesque face. With a swift toss, Sam flung the carving into the entryway and backed away.

Within moments, the flames were spreading across the floors and up the walls, moving inexorably to consume the entire building. The intense heat forced them backward, until they stood in the driveway. Leaning on the Impala, they watched the fire rage, spouts of flame shooting out of the windows and flaring out of the chimneys.

As Sam watched the house burn and the flames leap into the sky, he felt the resolution that had been missing before. It was finally over. No more children would die at the hands of this monster. For an instant, he imagined Nat Keller's ghost watching and smiling, his task completed.

In that moment, Sam knew he would never dream of the boy in the woods again.


End file.
